


The Child Is Father of the Man

by Radiday



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiday/pseuds/Radiday
Summary: The room is totally empty besides Dudley-Do-Right, but he sits next to him anyways. Lord knows why.The kid smiles again, turns out of his desk, and sticks out his hand. “I’m Fred,” he says.Or, Fred Andrews and FP Jones meet in Friday afternoon detention.





	The Child Is Father of the Man

FP Jones was a Friday detention regular. He’s usually joined by the usual suspects. Marty Mantle, Hal Cooper, occasionally his good friend Alice. But today, when he peaks through the window in the door, he doesn’t see any of them.

There’s only one other person in the room. He recognizes the kid sitting in front, drumming his fingers absently. A freshman like him. The door creaks when he opens it and the kid looks up, smiles at him. Not the kind of asshole smile he gets from his teammates, or the kind of “get away from my children” smile he gets when he walks into Pop’s with his Serpent jacket.

A genuine, wholehearted smile. Wholesome.

He kind of wants to punch this guy in the face.

The room is totally empty besides Dudley-Do-Right, but he sits next to him anyways. Lord knows why.

The kid smiles again, turns out of his desk, and sticks out his hand. “I’m Fred,” he says.

FP has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “FP,” he says, shaking Fred’s hand.

It’s then he realizes he knows this guy. Forsythe Senior and Artie Andrews were famous for their inability to be in the same room together.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he feels Fred’s eyes still on him. “What?” He snaps.

Fred’s not deterred. “You have some...,” Fred says, gesturing to his own cheek.

“What?”

“Blood. You’re bleeding. Here, let me just-,” Fred says, taking a tissue from the box on Cusack’s desk.

He stands in front of FP, gingerly swiping up the blood from the cut on his cheek when FP winces.

“Mantle’s an ass,” Fred says as he tossed the tissue in the trash and reaches for another one. “Marty totally had it coming.” 

“You saw what happened?” FP says, wincing as Fred pressed down on the gash.

“Sorry. All done,” Fred says, stepping back to admire his work. “I heard. Literally. I was in English right across the hall.” He makes a show of tossing the crumpled tissue as he slides back into his desk. It bounces off the wall and lands in the trash can. “Nice,” he says, more to himself than anything. He turns back to FP. “What’d he say to you anyways?”

FP raises his eyebrows and smirks, eying the trash can, before growing more serious. “Called me South Side scum.”

“Ass,” Fred says again. “That’s not cool.”

“No, it’s not,” FP says, making a fist. “That’s why I punched him.” Fred eyes his bruised knuckles. FP catches him, and he looks away quickly. “I’ve heard about you.”

Fred raises his eyebrows in question. “Alice told me,” FP continues. “Says she’s got a North Side friend.”

Fred laughs into his his throat. “Since kindergarten.”

“That’s a long time to put up with Alice Smith.”

Fred cocks his head. “Worth every minute.”

FP looks at him nervously. “You guys ever…”

“No,” Fred says hurriedly. “God, no. She’s just a friend.”

They lapse into an awkward silence and Fred goes back to drumming his fingers on the desk when FP asks, “So what are you in for?”

“What?”

FP nods to the room. “Detention.”

Fred laughs. “I didn’t do my math homework.”

FP narrows his eyes in disbelief. “They gave you detention for missing one assignment?”

“I didn’t do my math homework… all week.”

FP whistles. “North Side Prince skipping out on assignments?” He puts his hand to his chest in faux shock.

For some reason, that makes Fred angry. “Hey,” he says, irritated. “You don’t even know me.”

FP rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I know your type. Look at you. Cuffed jeans, ironed shirt.” He scoffs. “I bet your mom made your lunch.”

“What-”

“I bet your girlfriend wears a poodle skirt,” FP says, thrusting a finger in Fred’s face.

“Dude, this isn’t _Grease_ ,” Fred says, his face twisted in confusion. “And, for your information, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

FP’s about to bite back a response when the door swings open. “Where’s Mr. Cusack?”

It’s Mary Moore, wide eyes shining through her coke bottle glasses, hands resting on her hips just below the hem of her pleated skirt.

FP watches as Fred’s face untwists and mellows into a goofy grin. “He’s out for a smoke,” Fred says, smoothing out his shirt. “You wanna wait?” he says, jutting out a thumb to the desk next to him.

Mary rolls her eyes. “No. Just tell him I came by. I’ve got my extra credit assignment for him.”

Fred flashes a smile again. “I can give it to him, if you want.”

“Why would I leave it with you?” Mary bites.

FP smirks. Fred looks like a hurt puppy dog. “I-I don’t know,” Fred says, shrugging.

“Well then,” Mary says, hands still on her hips. “I’ll come back.”

Mary swings the door shut and FP lets out the laugh he’s been holding back. “Dude,” he says, reaching over to slap Fred on the back. “You’ve got a crush on Mary Moore?”

“What? I- no. I don’t.”

“Ha. You’ve got it bad.” FP leans back over and stage whispers, “You know, she seems like the kind of girl that would wear a poodle skirt.”

“Mary would never wear a poodle skirt,” Fred says matter-of-factly.

“Whatever, dude,” FP says with a roll of his eyes. “You guys would make the perfect North Side couple.”

“Dude, what is your deal? You don’t even-”

“Know you. Yeah, you said that already. I _know_ you and your perfect little white picket fence house with your perfect white picket fence family.”

“You don’t know anything about my family,” Fred snaps. “They’re far from perfect.” He takes a second to compose himself before adding, “And you’re the one wearing a letterman jacket, so don’t come at me about my outfit.”

The air in the room seems to lighten. FP laughs. “Touché.”

They smile at each other, an unspoken apology on both sides. “You know,” FP says, “Alice told me you wanted to take Home Ec next semester.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Fred twists his thumbs. “I don’t know. It seems like a good idea. You know, cooking, taking care of babies. We’ll need to know that someday.”

“We will?”

“I mean, yeah. You don’t want kids?”

FP shrugs. “I’ve never really thought about it. You have?”

“Yeah, man. And I want to know how to take care you ‘em. You know? So I don’t screw them up.”

“You’re already a better parent than mine.”

Fred looks over at FP, then back at his thumbs. “They’re no good?”

“Mom’s dead,” FP says, tracing a circle with his finger on the desk. “Dad’s a drunk.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry,” Fred says awkwardly. “You know, if you ever need to get out, like, need a place to stay or something, you could always stay with me. Alice does,” he adds for good measure. “She likes the white picket fence."

FP laughs. “Fat chance.” He looks at Fred then looks away. “But thanks.”

The door swings open again, reveals Mr. Cusack, the smell of smoke floating from his clothes. “Detention’s over. You boys can go home. And Andrews? Do your homework.”

* * *

Fred expected the tongue lashing he got when he got home that night. Grounded, for two weeks, same as usual. He didn’t like disappointing his parents, but he had to hold in a laugh at how red Artie’s face got as he yelled. 

Oscar’s always been the perfect one, anyways.

When Artie retreats back to his study, his mom kisses the top of his head and ruffles his hair. “You do this on purpose, I swear.”

Fred swallows a bite of the lasagna Bunny puts in front of him. He missed dinner. “No,” Fred says, a smile playing on his lips. “He just likes to yell at me because he never got to yell at Oscar.”

Bunny sets down the dish she’d been washing and sighs, turning to shoot Fred a look. “Now, Freddy, Oscar’s had his fair share of scolding at too.”

Fred swallows another bite. “Yeah, right. Mr. Perfect Senior and Mr. Perfect Junior are basically the same person.”

Bunny opens her mouth to respond when the doorbell rings. “I got it,” Fred says, taking a sip of milk.

The sound of the bell brings Artie out of his study. “Whoever it is, send them off. You’re grounded, remember?” 

Fred ignores him, swinging the door open.

There stands FP Jones, new, fresh bruises under his eye and on the side of his lip.

“FP,” Fred says, eyeing the bruises nervously.

Artie, who’s now in the kitchen, can’t see who it is. “Fred, are you listening? You’re grounded. You can’t just-.” He stops when he comes around to the other side of the door, blinking at the kid with the bruised and bloody face.

Fred rocks on the balls of his feet. “Dad, this is-“

“I know who he is,” Artie says, voice steely.

“I’m sorry,” FP says, backing away from the house. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

FP’s just about to make a run for it when Fred calls out. “No, hey, wait! It’s okay. What happened to your face? Those weren’t there before,” he says, gesturing to the bruises.

“I’m sorry. I just- You said I could come here if I ever needed and I just-“ FP fumbles.

“Woah, hey, it’s okay. I meant it. You can stay here. Right Dad? Mom?”

Artie’s still staring firmly at FP, but Bunny’s voice is warm and welcoming. “Of course, dear. Come in. I’ll fix up Oscar’s room, he’s away on a school trip.”

FP smiles his thanks awkwardly, stepping into the house when Fred motions him in. “You want some lasagna?”

* * *

FP eats like he’s never seen food before, and Bunny vows silently to make sure the boy has some leftovers to take with him when he leaves. 

He follows Fred up the stairs and into Oscar’s room. “I’ll go get you some pajamas,” Fred says, and it’s only then that FP realizes he came here empty-handed.

FP glances around the room, taking in the bookshelf of what he thinks are junior and senior year textbooks, when there’s a knock at the door.

His stomach twists when he sees it’s Artie.

“I’m sorry, sir,” FP says, reflexes kicking in, putting his hands up as if he’s surrendering. “I shouldn’t have just shown up here. I didn’t mean-“

Artie steps into the room, revealing an ice pack in his hand. He smiles at FP, and FP feels physical weight lift off his shoulders. “Here,” he says, pressing the pack against FP’s eye. “Those look bad.”

“They’re not, really. Just-“

“Did you dad do this?” Artie asks, sitting on the edge of Oscar’s bed.

“What? No, no. He didn’t- I mean,” he pauses, tears prickling at his eyes. He joins Artie on the bed. “He didn’t mean it. He was drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Artie says matter-of-factly, face furrowed in concern just like Fred. Like father, like son, FP thinks.

“It’s okay,” FP says hurriedly. “Really, it doesn’t happen often.”

Artie leans his head closer to FP, forcing eye contact. “It shouldn’t happen at all.”  

“It doesn’t,” FP lies. “Not a lot. Just, please don’t tell him I’m here. I promise I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

Artie gives him another sad smile. “Of course, I won’t tell him. And you don’t have to leave. You can come here whenever you want. But,” he adds, patting FP’s knee gently, “don’t you think we should go to the police?”

FP shoots up like a rocket. “No, no, Mr. Andrews, sir, please. We can’t do that. He’ll kill me.” He says the words before he even realizes it, and his heart sinks when he realizes it’s true.

Artie, shocked by the panic, puts his own hands up in surrender. “Okay. It’s okay. I won’t say anything. But if it gets worse, you have to tell me, okay? We won’t have you in that house when it’s not safe.”

Artie gets up and starts out of the room. “I will. Thank you, sir,” FP says to his back.

Artie turns back around and smiles. “Anytime. And don’t call me sir.”

Fred all but runs into his father on his way out. “Did he yell at you?” Fred asks incredulously. “I swear to God. I’m sorry about him.”

“He didn’t. He was really nice.”

Fred’s taken aback. “Oh. Well, good.” He hands the folded pajamas to FP, who takes in the scent of detergent. It makes him feel safe. “Um,” Fred says awkwardly, getting his attention. “If you need anything, I’m right down the hall. Just come get me, okay? I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

Fred spins on his heel when FP calls out to him. “What’s up?” Fred asks.

“Do you think- Is there any way,” FP swallows nervously. “Can I maybe sleep on your floor? I just, I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

FP feels pathetic even asking, but Fred’s face breaks out into a toothy grin. “I have a better idea.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Fred and FP are both tucked into Fred’s twin bed, shoulder to shoulder. “You and Alice sleep like this?” FP asks.

Fred barks out a laugh. “Alice makes _me_ sleep on the floor.”

FP thumbs the covers nervously. “Thank you, for this. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime. That’s what friends are for.”

“We’re friends?”

Fred turns his head and catches FP’s eye. “Dude. You’re in my bed. We better be friends. Now,” Fred says, rolling over onto his side. “Get some sleep. Mom’ll make pancakes in the morning."

FP breaks into a smile for the first time that night. “Remember what I was saying about white picket fences?”

Fred slides his hand out from under the covers and playfully swats at FP’s shoulder. “Shut up.”


End file.
